


A Nightingale Sang in Berkley Square

by Phoenixflames12



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21523963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixflames12/pseuds/Phoenixflames12
Summary: September, 1945.The War has changed everything.Nightingale ventures out of the Folly to find the London and himself changed beyond recognition.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	A Nightingale Sang in Berkley Square

September 1945

On the first day that Nightingale ventures out of the safety of the Folly’s walls, the world does not feel real.

A thin, grey mist has enveloped itself over hanging like icicles over the lampposts, swirling and billowing down over the duck pond, catching at the coats of pedestrians, making them huddle deeper into the blankness and long for spring.

As he crosses the park, skirting round the Mall to the palace, he catches a glimpse of an omnibus with an advert for Guinness in its’ window heading down Albert Road. It’s comforting image of normality shields the backs of its’ civilians with their felt hats and paisley headscarves, their paper bags and ration books clutched in their laps and he wants to scream but knows that it will do no good.

London has had its’ fair share of war. 

Has grimly survived its’ fair share of nights obliterated by the wail and crash of bombs, of houses and livelihoods turned into piles of rubble as the milkman peddles his bicycle through the cold, grey light of dawn through the still smouldering heaps of death. Of nights spent in frozen wakefulness in the underground, hoping that tonight will not be the night that it all ends.

His heart twists in his chest as he stops, not bothering to make sense of the glances from the pedestrians that burn into his back. Some are pitying, some are hostile, some simply curious.

_Another one come back late._

_Poor old sod._

Closing his eyes, he tries to breathe.

Tries to remain grounded as each frosted inhale is matched by a ragged exhale.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Anger will do nothing for him now.

The time for anger, for fireballs and rage at High Command and the pen pushers who treated him and his men, all of them good, proud, strong men who had followed him from Casterbrook, as if they were nothing but replacement chattel has been swept up in the past.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Slowly, he comes back to himself.

Feels the weight of his shoes against the pavement, the bite of the wind whipping and burying itself in any crevice it can find. The weight of the knot of his tie against his throat that threatens to choke him and yet something tells him that it would be improper if he pulls it loose, the ghosts of petrol, old cigarette smoke and the stink of his sweat that cling to the air like a cloak.

Turning on his heel, he walks quickly down the street, his feet taking him firmly past the gaping holes of bombed out houses, shops and schools and into the shadowed safety of a back alley.

The bricks are damp with the previous night’s rain, cold and steady under his palm as he braces it against them, trying to summon up what little courage he has left.

Trying to remember the formae that once, in the heat of battle and the terror and confusion of the retreat back to the Allied lines, had come to him as easy as breathing.

Not now, though. 

Not in this world of shadows and sideways glances, a world of broken families and potato peelings boiled in water to make soup. This world where the spells and his magic must be kept hidden, even from himself.

No wonder Molly was frightened for him.

She didn’t say as much, but he knows.

Can read her quick tentative glances under her lashes at him when she’s finishing serving him supper in the Folly’s too-big dining room that hosts more ghosts than it does men, easier than any book.

Out of the corner of his eye, at the opening to the alley, he sees a recently returned sailor with oil on his collar share a kiss with his sweetheart, a tall girl in a green dress with a bow of red lipstick and a green ribbon holding her hair.

They catch sight of him, and he can see that the girl wants to help, but her man is pulling her back, gripping her arm.

‘ _Come on. There’s nothing we can do. Let’s go.’_

Instead they move on quickly, linking hands, the young man whistling a tune from the wireless in a tuneless pitch through his teeth.

His following exhale is shaky with relief, his hands unclenching themselves from the involuntary fists.

Slowly, he lets his mind focus on the simplest of spells, on creating a werelight with lux.

It rises out of the shadows, small and flickering and for a moment panic grips his throat at the sight of it guttering in the dark.

Sweat beats at his hairline at the effort and the thought that this simple spell might be too much too soon fills him with revulsion.

_Is this what the war has reduced him to?_

_Is this all that he is capable of- a basic first order spell that he had first learnt when he was eight and now struggles to pull off?_

The werelight flickers and he wills it to remain intact, hovering perilously above the palm of his hand, gutters and despite, or perhaps in spite of, his one last effort, goes out.

Slumping back against the brick that tingle with the memories of lovers’ trysts, the flash of pocket blades and the faint stink of urine, his head drops into his hands, fingers raking themselves through his hair.

_Pull yourself together, Thomas._

A small voice that glimmers with hope and urgency flickers through his physche and slowly, he lifts his head out of his arms, blinking as his eyes adjust to the gloom.

_You are alive._

_You are alive and the magic will come back._

_You must nourish it, must treasure it, for their memories as much as your own._

_For the memories of all of those who did not make it back._

There is work to be done, he knows that much.

There is work to do and he is the only one who can do it, who is able to do it.

Slowly, he gets to his feet and makes his way out of the alley, winding his way back towards the Folly. The lamps had been lit, the pavement shimmering with stars as a sliver of silver moon slips out from behind a cloud.

There is time enough to mourn, but now he must work.

But first of all, he thinks, with a small smile as he turns into Berkley Square and listens for his nightingale amid the whispered rustle of the plane trees, he must let Molly know that there will be a select gathering of guests for supper tomorrow.

* * *

_**Fin** _

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!
> 
> Much love,
> 
> Phoenixflames12 xxx


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